


Drawing Dead

by SocialClass



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Hurt/Comfort, Moirails, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:25:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2474753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SocialClass/pseuds/SocialClass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon the recovery a corpse, Spades Slick confirms the remains to be that of his own crew member, Diamonds Droog. After proceeding to discuss matters with Midnight City's renown detective, Problem Sleuth, Slick proceeds to a little bit of his own investigating and finds a more startling discovery about the relations between new rival gang called The Felt and the Detective Agency. (Human!AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawing Dead

**> Days Ago:**  


“Jack Noir, am I correct?” The door shut with an echoing ‘ _click_ ’. The interrogation began…  **  
**

Jack gave a slight nod, tipping the brim of his hat lower to conceal the cold glare he gave on a daily basis. A camcorder in the corner of the room had been briefly set up to record Jack’s actions and replies. Every action, reaction, expression, and reply would be under review afterwards. Jack knew better than to act out at this point; he knew he couldn’t get away with too much. He would have to hold his tongue and temper. “My apologies, Mr. Noir, I have to ask that you give a verbal response during this investigation.” The detective murmured in slight disgust.  
Jack mumbled under his breath, glancing up to the detective as he then slouched in his chair. Ducking his head slightly, he muttered again before sitting up to speak. The impatient detective trialed Jack’s temper as he spoke up before him. “Do you understand me, Mr. Noir? You must give a verbal response during this investigation and—”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard ya’… Yeah, I’m Jack—Jack Noir.” Shifting in his chair, Jack leaned forward, elbows coming to rest on the metallic table before him. Fingers laced together and brushed the brim of his hat up ever so slightly as the detective nodded his head and continued.

“Now… Mr. Noir—”

“Jack,” Jack interrupted abruptly, and corrected the detective. “None of that… formal-crap; just call me Jack.”

“Alright…” A pause slipped in as the detective glanced down at his notepad, reading over a few key-notes before he would begin. In these few moments of silence, the detective felt the cold stare-down his client gave him, but the blatant apathetic detective shrugged it off and continued. “Jack,” The detective murmured in a tone that seemed dull and hollow; the evident apathy abrasive in his voice. The good cop/bad cop act began… “Let’s begin with a few basics… Now, I understand that you are a strong business owner of the major shipping parliaments running in and out of this region. Am I correct?” Jack nodded, “I also understand that you control many other companies, much like your favored casinos and a few bars on the main streets of this town…” He paused, flipping through his notes and reading a few more tabs. Jack sat up and lulled his head back in his seat, quickly becoming bored of the situation. All review; all of this was review. “You are part of the co-founders of this town?”

“I am _the_ founder of this town.”

“Right, right…” His eyes glanced back down to his notes, “Alright, we’ll begin with a few simple questions.”

“’Course, detective…” Jack sighed softly, operating this situation as any other normal person would. If cooperating with this prick will make time fly faster to getting the hell out of here, it’s obvious that Jack will do what he would have to. As a few more moments of silence slipped in, Jack found himself drumming his fingers on the edges of the table as he leaned forward to rest one elbow on a corner; lounging slightly to his side. His eyes glared up and down the evenly-short statured man before him; eyes ripping to shreds every ounce of this prick: his clothes, his skin, his bones; anything that made him human – his soul. Slick tore it all apart mentally and laughed manically while doing so. This put him at ease for being in a room that was surrounded by cops just on the other side of that one-way mirror. When the silence and the waiting took its toll on his peace of mind, Jack finally cracked quietly with a question. “Can we hurry this along, Detective; I’ve got places to be…” The detective took note of Jack’s anxious figure. A thought crossed his mind and he soon stepped aside to take a seat across from Jack.

“We’ll try to hurry this along… Now, for the record, you were the one to identify the man we found on the coastline of the city, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Okay… And your relation with Mr. …” He flipped through his notes once more and stopped, “… Mr. Draconian was what kind?”

“Professional Business.” Jack answered quickly, waiting for the next question. He then paused and glanced up to see the detective waiting for further explanation. “Draco was a friend of mine from a while back – we knew each other quite a few years before we became adults – but I lost track of him at a time or another. When I found him again, it was by accident. He was needing some help out, and well, knowing me… I struck up a deal with him. He was the co-founder of this city—right at my side the whole way. He’s been my secretary for a while now, and he’s been a damn good one to say the least.” The detective nodded at this.

“What would you call his supposed person…?”

“I don’t… I don’t follow,” Jack gave a confused look.

“Person like… personality—his character; did anyone hate him? Were there people who were holding grudges against him?”

“Oh! Oh, yeah, plenty of people hated him, but none of them would do anything about it. The bastard was a real smart-ass – if that means anything – even to me; he had a... real dry sense of humor…”

“Can you elaborate?”

“Of course... Draco wasn’t much of a chatty man, for starters. He was quiet, well organized—a real thinker. The man was hard to read and was always one to be more than what he looked - I don't know how, though, he was always dressed like a million and two bucks. But he was smart. He could solve any problem you’d throw at him; intelligent, better to say. He could hold his tongue for the most part, but when he did speak - which was always rare - he would speak with one hell of a dry sense of humor. He’d make small, but _very_  inappropriate comments about things you don’t normally joke about,” Jack smirked widely, sitting back and lounging again in his chair that way. He nodded his head a few times, continuing. “He was a real classy guy, to say the least. He enjoyed the finer things in life and hell—he _had_ the finer things in life!” Jack lulled his head back once again, lacing his fingers together and resting them on the back of his head. "Suits and ties—enough gel in his hair a bullet would deflect off it... dames on either side of his arms, cigarette hanging from his lips..." Jack purred at the small fond memories. The detective jotted these things down with a small question rising from his lips.

“Were you ever… jealous of Mr. Draconian?” The question rose without hesitation. Jack was caught off guard, sitting up and raising a brow.

“Jealous?” He asked appalled; offended that the man would suggest such a thing. “Of course not… The man was a real prick, even when he could have any of the broads he’d ask for. The man had his days – and plenty of them – even when you wouldn’t expect it.”

“When he was having a bad day, would he let you know?”

“Yeah, he’d let ya’ know; he’d let ya’ know if you were getting on his nerves or really pissing him off. He had one hell of a temper, though, I’d tell ya’. I would not want to fuck with him when he’s pissed off.” Jack sits up, fingers still laced together as he rests them against the cold of the table, “He and I would have argued ever so often on days he’d be a real horse’s ass and I wouldn’t want to be in the mood to deal with him…”

“So, on days you don’t feel up to the shenanigans, what would you do when he persisted? How did these arguments end?”

“Most of the time, they’d end a bit rust – as it usually started out to begin with, but we’d always end as if nothing ever happened.” He said, “Of course, sometimes I’d be more pissed than he’d be on a bad hair day, and I’d lock myself in my office for times on end until I could come to face him again.” He mused quietly, still fidgeting in his chair; twiddling his thumbs.

“So would you say you’re short-tempered as well?” The detective continued jotting these things down, drawing lines and writing side-notes. Eyes flickered up to the large one-way window behind Jack. He pursed his lips together, waiting to listen to what Jack had to say.

“No hiding that one, it’s true. I have a short fuse with it.” He stated, “But I’m aware of it… That’s why I do the things I do to control it, but there are so many things in this world that like to piss me off…”

“I take the thought of – if he pissed you off enough – you’d begin the argument… and what would he do?”

“Not always. I’d often just yell for him to screw off, but… if it does go that far, he’d back off first, and then he’d try to reason with him – which was always inevitable, I’m a stubborn bastard – and finally, he’d just stand there and take all the yelling.” Jack starts to bounce his leg as anxiety grew against the better of his mind. He couldn’t lose his temper now, not even if he knew where this was going. He knew what question would be asked next, and he knew he would lose it.

“So would these arguments leave you still angry; wanting more than just an argument?” The detective shifted in his seat, crossing a leg over the other, and glanced up to meet eye-to-eye with Jack’s blue orbs.

“Oh, well, no.” Jack stated stiffly, “I mean, no matter how much I’d want to, I’d—I’d never attack one of my own friends. Not even my best friend—”

“Wouldn’t that have been plenty enough reasoning to attack Mr. Draconian? The opportunity would have been abroad: you were the one man he could relax around – be off guard and care free and _—_ ” The detective couldn’t finish his statement as Jack stood up and braced his hands against the table.

“Now hold on a fucking second!” Jack snarled, “Draconian was my best fucking friend – he was my only fucking friend. Why the fuck would I want to kill him?!”

“You tell me, Mr. Noir.” The detective stated simply, silence falling between the two as the atmosphere turned stale. The detective remained in his seat, eyes up at the undercover mobster that stood across the table from him; eyes locked on to each other, ice blue clashing with the emerald green. Tension sparked and ignited Jack the urge to flip this table onto the detective and crush him to death, but he fought it to control himself. How dare this _prick_ make faulty and idiotic assumptions? Who the fuck did he think he was?!  
“I’d like to make it a point to state that you not only run a sketchy shipping dock – as is – but you also associate yourself with a group of men known, who – even you, yourself – have a track record of being caught in the acts that not only go against the federal law, but also go against your own rules at in these companies. If I have my facts correct, you also have felonies charged against you that you’ve somehow managed to slip out of…” The detective cut between Jack’s thoughts, flipping through his notepad to read off what he could find. Jack grumbled and took a seat again, taking a few deep breaths.

“There was no solid case or evidence that said I ever committed those felonies, Detective; ain’t this investigation supposed to be going towards my missing coworker and not about how I conduct my personal life? Yeah, I broke a few rules, but who doesn’t? I did my times-worth of dealing with the police, but conspiracies, detective, aren’t part of your job description.” Jack shrugged, glaring eyes having yet to pull away from the detective’s. “I admit, I can be a bit corked here and there, and I may have a few nicks and knacks that can’t be repaired, but I’m the man who made this city for what it is. If it weren’t for me, punk, you wouldn’t be in this city, sitting where you’re sitting and working on this damn case of _my_ missing friend.”

“I’d watch who you’re flinging names at, Jack.” The detective grunted in disgust. “I’m not the one being asked the questions; I’m the one _asking_ the questions. However, you are correct; this is going towards the investigation of said dead man.” He murmured as he trailed off and broke gaze to gleam down at his notepad. Previous notes of what had been gathered by the scene to the autopsy were jotted down in illegible scribbles. Jack couldn’t decipher a damn thing from all that scribble-doodle nonsense. The detective paused a moment, flickering his pen between his fingers and then sighed. “… Looking into the autopsy records that were recovered from the forensic units, it appears our victim has multiple stab wounds to his back, chest, and stomach; all a half inch deep. He gave signs of experiencing severe trauma to the head, damaged ribs – including broken and fractured, and what appears to be chemical burns inside of his stomach. There are many other items we’ve found, but I don’t want to over whelm you.” Jack’s expressions shifted from a look of hatred and disgust to sheer shock.

“You mean to tell me those fuckers tortured him?”

“Not exactly, but it’s quite possible. Reviewing the results from his blood, it was found that he had been intoxicated – meaning booze, and lots of it. More than double the amount of the average daily drunk. This suggests that he was drinking previously to his kidnapping and the torture induced actions had taken place shortly after the place of abduction.”

“So it was over an extended period of days.”

“Weeks; these wounds were done over a period of weeks. Some of the wounds were old, some of them were new. This means that whatever they had against Mr. Draconian, they truly wanted him to feel the wrath of every ounce of burning hatred they had for him.”

“Did you say that his blood held more than—”

“—the average daily-drunk; I told you that so you would ask that questions, Mr. Noir. If he were intoxicated previously during his abduction, then they must have kept him on anything they had in their storage unit for as long as possible.”

“But why would they want to keep him drunk, if he was even drunk to begin with?”

“I was hoping you could answer that for me.”

“Droo—Draco wasn’t one to… get drunk, not even in celebration. He would have a couple drinks, but he’d never get full-blown wasted. This doesn’t make sense.”

“My point exactly, Mr. Noir. This investigation can’t run any farther unless you tell me everything you know. Every ounce of information you have is vital, and it could lead us to who might have done it or to what might have happened.”

“…” Jack fell silent for a long moment, eyes on the table. His shoulders dropped as he soon rubbed at his scruffy five o’clock shadow. “Drugged.” He muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“He was drugged.”

“Did he use drugs?”

“No, you idiot, I mean he was drugged when he was abducted; when they made their move on him.” Jack barked. “Draco left the office and invited me out to a bar the night he ended up missing. He said he was meeting some dame out there; said she was a beauty and a half or whatever… He said, it was supposed to be deliberate business at first – what business, I don’t know, don’t ask me – and said it turned into something more; the sly bastard. I told him I’d be out a couple hours after work; said I’d meet him there.” Jack’s head hung as he confessed, “When I got there, he was nowhere to be found. I figured he might have taken her home after a few drinks or so; thought he sweet-talked her into going home with him. I didn’t think much of it. I thought he just had a good night when he didn’t come in – it was a bit more than normal for him not to call in when he had a good night before – then again it was a Saturday, now that I think about it, he wasn’t supposed to come in.” He sighed softly, finally taking off his hat and setting it aside as he ran a hand through his hair. “Weekend passed and the man didn’t come to work Monday. I thought he was sick, so I called him up; no one answered.” The detective continued to jot these notes down, “Tuesday… Wednesday… Thursday; finally I got sick of waiting for him to reply; to call me back… I uh… I stopped off at his apartment up on Main, room 8B. First thing I noticed was his door was unlocked and had been opened. It wasn’t just opened, it was _forced_ open.”

“How would you know that?”

“Kick in a few; you’ll pick it up quickly.” Jack then continued, “I wondered in, I called out for him; I called out ‘Droog’… No one replied. So, I entered in, I called out and said I was entering in, and… Christ, detective… It was a mess. Wine still sat half in the bottle, half on the floor; furniture torn and shot to hell, blood on the tile that scraped and scratched from the kitchen to the bathroom window and out the fire-escape.”

“What did you do then?”

“Only thing I knew I could do. I called you pricks, and you came out with cameras and yellow tape and cleaned it all up.” Jack sighed softly, “I uh… I did what I could then, and I’m doing what I could do now. You found the body and called me to identify and I did; I’m doing my part as a citizen in the city I made, Detective. All I’m asking is for you to do the same in return.”

“We’re doing all we can—”

“Like hell you are!” Jack barked once more, “I want answers as much as you do, pal,” Jack stood and braced against the table again, “But you haven’t done everything in your power to help me as much as I’m helping you! You don’t stop until all possible ideas are executed; get your damn dogs out and sniff for a scent!”

“We would, but it’s been far too long for them to pick up on anything. Remember, it rained since that night, anything out there is _gone_.”

“Bullshit. I lost my best friend and I was the one to step forward and identify him. I come here and stand in this god damn box, answering questions you throw at me without hesitation, and then you accuse me of killing him!! Obviously not **_all_** ideas are executed if you’re going to point fingers at me!!” Jack stared at him with determined yet anxious eyes, shaking his head. When the detective didn’t respond, Jack looked away, “I ain’t guilty of killing my best friend. I wouldn’t even consider it. He’s the only prick who could tolerate me screaming in his face and understood _me_. I’m giving what I can give; I need you to do the same for me, Detective.” Jack closed his statement, sitting down and closing his head as he bowed his head. Jack pinched the bridge of his nose slightly, taking a few moments to compose his anxious being; trying to calm his nerves. When the detective could speak, he finally drew and audible breath.

“Mr. Noir, I have one last question…” The detective murmured, placing his notepad down. “What kind of people did Mr. Draconian associate himself with; other than you, of course.” Jack stopped and fell silent, curious if he should really say. Jack knew that Droog hung around men just as equally dangerous. But he couldn’t say who. That was the one thing he didn’t know about his friend. Who did Droog associate with when he was alone?

“I’m… sorry, Detective, I can’t answer that.”

“Why is that?”

“… Because I don’t know.”

 

**> Be Spades Slick – Jack Noir – Now:**  


_“Yes, well… If that’s all that you know, Jack, I’m obliged to let you go. I’ll be showing you to the door.”_ **  
**

_“Alright.”_

_“Jack? If telling yourself that he’s not dead is going to give you peace, go ahead. At some point, you’re going to have to face reality. It’d be better now than never; I hate seeing you like this. Remember, the evidence does not lie.”_

_“Yeah, thanks Sleuth.”_

On your way home, you limp. Your horse head-hitcher is being your support for now, holding you up. As you stroll through the city in the late hours of the night, you wonder on your way back to the office, coming home from discussing matters with Sleuth. Unsure for what would be waiting for you when you got there; you prayed it would be your right-hand man, Diamonds Droog. You’d imagine him holding out a few folders on recent information of rival gangs moving in next door, but you know the cold truth of his absence.  
Recently, after the interrogation, you reflect back on what the detective said… yet you cannot stand to give the fact that that fool; that fuckin’ _cop_ tried to make you fess up to murdering your own man. The likes of that asshole, really…  
Really…

Diamonds Droog is… missing.  
Sort of. 

His body was recovered down by your docking unit, and you were the only one to come forward and open your big mouth to identifying him. Not like anyone else could. His body was, upon seeing it, mangled; a mesh of disgusting for that… surprised you…  And it was strange to consider the fact that Diamonds – Draconian – would ever allow himself to be shot down like that; to be murdered so easily. He’s too good for that. You _know_ he is. You know him; hell, he was there for you since you two were practically kids! No matter what happened, he would stick by you like a breath—like the best friend he is—  
You punch a wall with a fist that you didn’t even realize was clenched. Your teeth were grit, your blood being brought to a boil at these childish ideas of what happened to your friend. You take a breath and a small step back, looking down at your white knuckles that began to bleed. Grumbling under your breath, you speak to yourself to reassure yourself, “It’s not like him to do this, Jack, you know better.” You mutterer to yourself, “To just… disappear like ‘at… No, no, that’s not your friend…” Feeling your emotions stir as your thoughts became verbal, you shake your head and continue on to taking a shortcut down an alleyway.  
It pisses you off a little to think things like this. You’re supposed to be the leader of this organization and that’s exactly what you’re trying to do! But… what kind of fucking leader lets one of his own men die? Sure, death was a thing that occurred, but it occurred to only those things that were disposable. Diamonds Droog was _not_ disposable. Somewhere in this city, Diamonds Droog would run free, you know better than to assume position of his death and to move along as if nothing happened. You know better. Diamonds Droog is not dead; your gut feeling tells you that. Your gut feeling as never been wrong… you don’t think.

Muttering to yourself, you tug out a set of keys and unlock the door to your office. Glancing back, you eye the streets in confusion, questioning if someone had been following you.


End file.
